


The Eighth Day

by Shampain



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Mutual Idiocy, Mutual Pining, Some Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 23:40:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19283557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shampain/pseuds/Shampain
Summary: Aziraphale did his best not to fidget with his napkin. Instead he kept his hands beneath the table, before they gave him away. “Are you sure you wouldn't like a bite?” he asked.Crowley gave him a startled look. “What?”“The scones.”The demon's mouth twisted slightly.-Aziraphale and Crowley spend a rainy morning indoors.





	The Eighth Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notanescalator](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notanescalator/gifts).



> the Aziraphale to my Crowley asked for a fic with the following word prompts:  
> soft  
> new clothes  
> food  
> pot
> 
> hope ya like it babe

It was raining. The two of them were inside one of Aziraphale's favourite cafes, and the humidity combined with the cappuccinos and the customers had caused the windows to steam up a bit. That was good. He didn't need to look out the window; he was more interested in looking at Crowley. A lick of red hair had fallen free from its fellows and was hanging against the demon's forehead. It was rather charming, though his hands itched to smooth it back into place.

“So?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale realized the demon must have been talking.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “Yes.”

“You're doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Pretending to listen to me but you're not,” he complained. He slumped back in his seat, and sipped at his cappuccino. Crowley very rarely ate anything; he preferred to drink things. If you could put it in a cup or a mug or a glass, Crowley was interested in it. “Your mind roaming off into the bright expanse of the universe, or something.”

“It wasn't,” Aziraphale protested. _I was just distracted looking at you_ , he wanted to say. _You look very nice this morning_. Instead he took a bite of his scone. “Is that a new shirt?” he asked, after ensuring not a single crumb had made it anywhere on himself or the table.

The demon glanced down at his chest. “I suppose it is,” he said, and the angel tried not to blush, feeling caught out. Was he not supposed to notice that? He felt like he noticed everything about Crowley. He just couldn't help it. It was natural, wasn't it? To keep tabs on your enemy?

Aziraphale did his best not to fidget with his napkin. Instead he kept his hands beneath the table, before they gave him away. “Are you sure you wouldn't like a bite?” he asked.

Crowley gave him a startled look. “What?”

“The scones.”

The demon's mouth twisted slightly. “I'm fine,” he said, and began to pat himself down, finally coming up with a sleek silvery case, popping it open to reveal a pair of rather neatly rolled marijuana cigarettes. Aziraphale always wanted to ask if Crowley rolled them himself. If so, he wanted to watch; it must be fascinating to see the demon’s long, elegant fingers shaping one. See him licking the edge of the paper to seal it closed. “Can't smoke in here, can you?” Crowley mused, staring at the joints with a longing look Aziraphale wished was directed at him.

“Well, you certainly can't smoke _those_.”

“I'll be right back, then.”

He resisted the urge to clear some of the steam off the window in order to get a better look at the demon, now standing outside, his back to the cafe, collar of his jacket drawn up and a haze of smoke starting to gather around him. He could have smoked inside, the angel realized; he could get away with it. But a few decades ago Aziraphale had complained that the smell had a tendency to cling to his coat, which was something of a favourite piece of his. After that, he’d never had to ask the demon to keep it away from him again.

Aziraphale straightened his plate, then turned his teacup slightly so that the handle was pointing outwards. It gave him something to do besides staring out at the demon, whose outline was soft and blurry through the window. He was like a shadow who, if he turned the right way, could easily slip through the cracks. Aziraphale had never been able to master such an ability. He was too busy trying to catch the shadow before it slipped from his grasp.

He felt nervous, suddenly. These days, being apart was a tense affair. He was frightened that if he said goodbye to Crowley that would be the last time he ever saw him again. It could happen anytime, he worried. Suddenly, for the first time in his existence, life had a timeline whose end he could not foresee.

Crowley came back inside. Aziraphale began to breathe again.

“So,” Aziraphale said. He didn’t want their time together to end.

The demon lazed back in his chair. A second lock of hair had fallen free and his shoulders were shiny from rain. “Let’s have another one, then,” he said, draining the last of his cappuccino and making one of those cocky, self-assured motions towards the barista behind the counter, who smiled. Underneath the table, their feet touched, for a moment, as Crowley rearranged his long legs.

All the days had been nice, since they had averted the end of the world. But it was now the eighth day, and there was rain. Aziraphale couldn’t have been happier.


End file.
